Swensday stuff

The Decision to Not be Average
Swen Nater

I sat the bench during games, all except for the last three games of my freshman year at Cypress College . We had a decent team and the starting center, the one I would substitute for, was a good player. The only way I would get into the game was if we were too far behind to catch up or too far ahead. Neither happened very often, as most of our games were close. So, practices had to do in lieu of games, at least for the time being. 

I found myself in a place where many young players are today; I thought I was pretty good and just needed a chance to prove it. Subconsciously I figured, if I got into a game, my shot would go in, rebounds would come my way, and my opponent would miss his shots. What I was doing, like many young players today, was counting on the game to come to me. 

One day after practice, Russ Sharples, a teammate that could jump out of the gym, said, “Swen. We’ve been talking. You need to learn how to jump with explosion. Right now, your half jumping and the result is, you almost get rebounds and you almost block shots. Let me show you how.” He demonstrated how to bend your knees to 90 degrees in a crouched position, and then launch into the air, with explosion, like a rocket ship. He had me try it a few times and it worked. Immediately, I added six inches to my vertical. At that point, I made the choice to be an explosive jumper.

In the following practices, I tried what Russ showed me and I was amazed at the result. I gave the starting center all he could handle. I blocked some of his shots and out-jumped him for rebounds. I was ready for my chance.

Orange Coast College was a highly-ranked team in the conference and they had a high-scoring center. It was a home game for us and we were up for the challenge. My starting center fouled out of the game midway through the second half. Coach Johnson came over to me and said, “Swen, get in the game.” I leaped off the bench and ran to the scoring table. I was so excited, I almost forgot to take my warm-ups off. I was nervous but not that nervous. I had been waiting for that moment and I was determined to deliver. I had one thought on my mind; that center on the other team was not going to get a shot off.

We were behind at the time. Orange Coast had the ball as play resumed. They passed the ball around and it eventually ended up in their center’s hands. I’m sure that was the plan. They thought they had an advantageous matchup. He was about at the freethrow line and began his upward motion to shoot a jump shot. I took one step toward him, bent my knees to 90 degrees, exploded up into the air, and blocked his shot so hard it ended up at half court. One of my teammates grabbed it and scored. Wow! That was pretty cool.

How happy do you think I was? Actually, I was not happy at all. My goal was, he was not going to score on me at all. I was ready for the next time he got the ball. This time, before he shot, he faked his shot, dribbled to his right, and pulled up for the jump shot. He thought he lost me but I came from the side and blocked my second shot. We scored again. I don’t think he scored on me that night. Also, I got a few rebounds when the ball was above the rim. Do you know how good that feels? Do you know what an adrenalin rush it is to be high above the rest of the players, with the ball, and looking down on them? We won the game and the players all congratulated me for helping.

When Russ Sharples told me, I was “almost” blocking shots and “almost” getting rebounds, I got the message. The message was, I was being outplayed by the others. I felt horrible and depressed, with a nauseating feeling in my gut. Suddenly, I became sick and tired of getting my behind kicked and losing. Russ, showing me how to jump with explosion, really helped, but it all came down to me making a decision. At that moment I made up my mind; I’m going to decide how things go from now on. I’m going to take control of my life. This is the way it’s going to be from now on. Nobody is going to beat me!

As I mentioned above, many young players today are in the position I was in at Cypress. They’re going to every practice, lifting weights, and even doing extra shooting. Some have parents that have rigged up weight equipment at home, in the garage, or take them to the gym for extra work on Sundays. In short, they’re doing everything that’s asked of them.

When you’re doing everything that’s asked of you, you’ll be average because the game will never come to you; you must go get the game and that takes a decision—a point in time when you are honest with yourself and tell yourself, “I’m sick and tired of not scoring when I want to, outrebounding the rest, or stopping a great scorer.” It’s when you tell Mr. Average to get in the backseat and you take the wheel.
Swen

My First Day of Practice at Cypress College
Swen Nater

Cypress College head Coach Don Johnson is one of the nicest people I have ever met. Prior to the first day of practice my freshman year in 1968, he spent a lot of time with me off the court asking me questions, particularly about my personal life and my academics. Coach Johnson really cared. 
 
It’s hard to explain exactly how thrilled I was when I stepped onto the court for the first practice. I actually had an official practice outfit, complete with reversible tank top, cool shorts (short shorts), two pair of comfortable socks, and, oh yes, shoes. 1968 was the year Adidas shook the basketball market with its first shoe: the Superstar. Each player got a free pair. It was so comfortable and light, it felt like I didn’t even have shoes on. 

Practice began with fundamental drills, you know, the usual footwork, pivoting, form shooting, rebounding and the like. But then, this nice coach had us do full-court weaves and layups. I was 18 years old and for the entire 18 years, the most winded I got was running the 50 yard dash in PE. What Coach Johnson had us doing was ten 50 yard dashes in a row. 

After three trips down the court, my thigh muscles said, “Hey! Take it easy!” After five trips, it felt like somebody sucked all the air out of the gym. I literally could not breathe. I came to a stop right next to Coach Johnson, doubled over because of a knife-like pain in my side, and wheezed like a pig. I could only get one bit of air every few seconds. My lungs were burning and pumping but my throat was closed. I straightened up a couple of times and looked him in the eye, hoping he would call 911 or something. But he didn’t even look at me; he was concentrating on practice. I looked at Coach Lubin to get some sympathy but he did the same. Finally, Coach said, “Get your breath and get back in the drill.” Somehow I did but it happened again and again, each time coupled with Coach Johnson’s indifferent exhortation to “suck it up.” I literally thought I was going to die and I wondered, ‘Where did that nice Coach Johnson go?’

Luckily, Coach announced, “Water break.” Somebody tell me; how can you drink water when you can’t breathe? So, I used the water break to get my breath. I did get a couple of sips in before the next drill. And guess what the next drill was? Full-court layups. I literally could not run up and down the court twice. My performance was so bad, if it weren’t for the fact I was 6’9” and the tallest player, I’m sure I would have been cut from tryouts. But Coach Johnson gave me a chance and, in time, I got in shape.

Remember I told you, as a junior in high school, I was cut from tryouts for stealing a pair of shoes because I didn’t have any? Well, at Cypress, the coach gave me a pair. How cool is that? And they were the best shoes money could buy. But there’s one thing even the best shoes couldn’t do for me; they couldn’t make that first practice any easier. Man, was I glad it was over.

Swen

SWENSDAY STUFF

The Hook Shot
Swen Nater

On a Monday morning, late in August of 1968, I walked onto the Cypress College (CA) campus with my notebook, pencil, Pee Chee folder, and my lunch. By far, lunch was the heaviest for it contained four sandwiches. You see, I was 6’9” by then and still a growing boy. I was always hungry, ate a ton, but weighed only 185 pounds. I was so skinny, I had to wear skis in the shower so I wouldn’t go down the drain. I was so light, I could hardly keep my seat down in the movie theatre.

I was good in math and that’s where I thought I was headed with my life. My second class that morning was Calculus II and I loved it. One more class and then lunch. I didn’t know anybody because we had moved from Long Beach to Cypress, so at lunch, I sat by myself in the courtyard and started working on those four sandwiches.

I was about halfway finished when this guy walked over to me and said, “Hi. I’m Tim Tynum. I’m on the basketball team. Mr. Lubin over there [He pointed to a teacher standing by the door leading to the teacher’s lounge.] wants to know if you’re planning on playing basketball.”

I thought, ‘This is too good to be true. At Wilson High School, the coach told me never to try out again because I had stolen tennis shoes so I could try out for the team as a junior. Now a coach is actually asking me to play? Cool.’

I looked at Lubin and then back at Tim and said, “I guess so.” How stupid. I should have said, “Heck, yes!!!” Nevertheless, Tim took me over to Tom Lubin and introduced me. He was a Chemistry teacher and assistant basketball coach under Don Johnson. He was about 6’5” and looked just like Jerry West, crew-cut hair and all. He asked me some questions and then told me his uncle, Frank Lubin, was the center on the first US Olympic Basketball Team, the same Olympics Jesse Owens showed the world, the only superior human is the one that wants it the most and works the hardest.  Coach Lubin offered to work with me after school, every day. Our first appointment was the next day.

The Outside Courts at Cypress
Cypress was only two years old so we didn’t have a gym. (We played our games at the local high school and practiced at the middle school.) I met Coach Lubin on the outside court. He had a ball. The first thing he did was check out my vertical jump. It was sad. At 6’9”, jumping with two feet from under the rim, I could not touch the rim two times in a row. There are a lot of jokes about what is the shortest time span known to man. One is, it’s the amount of time between when the light turns green and the person behind you honks his horn. But the time span, measured from when I left the ground to when I landed has got to be close to the record. Lubin said, “Mmmmm.”

To this day, I believe Tom Lubin to be one of the best teachers I have seen in action. Up to that point, I had only used the jump shot. As I imitated his demonstration of the hook shot his uncle had used as a weapon, he fostered my improvement with just the right blending of: praise and correction, impatience and patience, hope and urgency. His corrections were short but packed with the clear information (coupled with repeated demonstration) I needed to make the changes.

Upon Mr. Lubin’s challenge, on my own, I shot 500 hook shots per day, except for the weekends when I shot 600 or more. I saw improvement almost immediately and the feeling was amazing. I was actually getting good at something. In a few weeks of daily practice, I had developed the shot to where I could hit about twenty in a row with right and left hands. It was time for official basketball practice to start.

Mr. Lubin had skillfully developed a hunger in me—a hunger for being able to do something well, in sports. It was a hunger that was very different from what I experienced at lunch. Those four sandwiches satisfied me until dinner but, with basketball, the more I learned hungrier I got. 

Sunday, I’ll tell you about my first day of basketball practice. I thought I was going to die.

Swen

Why I Didn’t Play Basketball in High School
Swen Nater

Before I came to the United States in 1959 as a nine-year old, I never heard about the game of basketball. There was only one sport in Holland: football (soccer). When I was a kid, Holland’s best player was Abe (ah’ buh) Lenstra, a scoring forward out of Heerenveen, a city in the province of Friesland. I never saw him play, but someone gave me his book, complete with illustrations. I used to practice those moves over and over again. At the halfway house, we organized a team. They made me the goalie. Well, the truth is, no one wanted to be the goalie so I volunteered just to make sure I was on the team. But isn’t it interesting, the job of a goalie is very much like that of the defensive center in basketball? I blocked shot attempts and if the ball deflected off a player or part of the goal, I rebounded, with my hands.  

In my first week of school in America (fourth grade), I was introduced to playground games I never heard of such as: tetherball, foursquare, jacks, marbles, and this game they called “football.”  How dare they steal that name? And that ball wasn’t round. When it hit the playground, it would bounce anywhere, even backwards. That’s crazy! Kickball became my favorite, not because the ball was round but because I was good at it. But I had an eye on that basketball. It was a lot like Dutch football, with a goal on each end and the teamwork required to score.

I spent two years at Washington Jr. High but I only played basketball in gym class. I was kicked out of that school because I got in a fight, every day, for fifteen days in a row. They transferred me to Jefferson Jr. High where I received counseling and where every one of my teachers made me believe in myself. My whole life turned around. In ninth grade (high school started in 10th grade), I was one A short of straight As. I also fell in love with basketball. Early each morning, right after my stepfather left for work, my mom let me leave for school. I usually arrived one hour before school began and spent that time playing basketball on the outside court. In first period English, I was always soaked with perspiration. No wonder I didn’t have a girlfriend. Anyway, sometimes I stayed after school to play a little more. But I had to be home before my stepfather.

In the summers, my brother, Ibo, and I, after watching a Lakers game, would go to the nearby school and pretend to be Jerry West, Elgin Baylor, and Wilt Chamberlain, trying to make the same moves they did. That was fun.

At Woodrow Wilson High, I often stayed after school to play basketball with some of the varsity players. Sometimes, I lost track of time and got home after my stepfather. That usually meant no dinner, no TV, and staying in my room. It was worth it. But one time I was so late I was sure the punishment was going to be more severe. I made up a story that I had passed out on the sidewalk on the way home, and a man with a turban found me, gave me some water, and I revived. My stepfather didn’t buy it. I was grounded for two weeks. That wasn’t worth it because I couldn’t play basketball after school.

My junior year, I was 6’4”, the second-tallest kid in the school. In gym class, I was not bad at basketball and some of my classmates (well, maybe one or two) urged me (well, suggested) to try out for the team. So I did, knowing full well, if I made the team, my stepfather wouldn’t let me play. (I never told him I was trying out.) The problem was, I didn’t have any tennis shoes; my stepfather hadn’t bought me any tennis shoes yet, not ever for gym class. So I tried out in my bare feet.

After the first day of tryouts, when everyone was gone, the coach told me, “If you don’t have shoes by tomorrow, don’t bother coming out.” He left the gym. As it happens, I saw a pair of basketball shoes by the bleachers. Someone has forgotten them. I checked the size and they were 13s. I wore 11s. Close enough. I came into the gym the next day, ready to practice, wearing three pairs of socks and beautiful Converse All-Stars. The moment I walked in, all the players stopped what they were doing and looked at me. I looked over to where the coach was standing and, low and behold; there was the 6’6” starting center with only his socks on. I was told to take the shoes off, leave, and not to try out my senior year.

That’s why I didn’t play basketball in high school. Heck, I probably wasn’t good enough anyway. But I didn’t lose my love for the game. The first day at Cypress Junior College, my basketball career started. I didn’t even have to try out. I was 6’9” by then. I’ll tell you about it on Wednesday.

Swen

Roy Rogers Comes to Roosevelt Elementary
Swen Nater

In the last posting I explained how my sister (12) and I (9) were flown to the United States from The Netherlands, compliments of the TV show, “It Could Be You,” nicknamed, “The Show of Surprises.” My mother, little brother, and stepfather had already been in America for four years, hoping to raise money to bring my sister and I over, but money was tight. Friends of theirs convinced the NBC show to bring us over, they agreed, and we were reunited on national television when the host opened the doors of a miniature windmill on the stage, and we came out to meet our mom and stepfather. My little brother, Ibo, was being babysat at home in Long Beach, just forty-five minutes south.

The Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Show, in Holland
During those four years away from my family, my sister and I lived with a friend of my mother, then in a foster home, and finally in a half-way house for children. The Dutch kept a close eye on the Americans, especially what was happening in Hollywood. The Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Show was very popular in the United States therefore, the Dutch TV stations wanted it also. If I am not mistaken, in Holland, it was a weekly show that aired every Wednesday evening. When living in the foster home, only one family on the block had a black and white TV. Every Wednesday evening, they were kind enough to invite every boy and girl in the neighborhood to come and watch, and I didn’t miss one episode.

To me, Roy Rogers was not an actor; he was a cowboy. The show was so real to me, I never thought of it as a show, with Roy and his wife, Dale Evans, performing rehearsed lines in front of motion picture cameras.  Roy Rogers was so cool. He was slow with the temper and fast with the gun. He was always one step ahead of the bad guys. I liked that. In short, Roy Rogers was everything I wanted to be. I dreamed of being a cowboy, just like Roy Rogers. 

So, when I heard my sister and I were going to America, there was only one thing on my mind—being a cowboy. Even at age nine, people were asking me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and I would say, “A cowboy.” I remember one lady responding, “Oh, well. Yes, Alright. That’s a good job, I suppose.” She didn’t understand; there was nothing more exciting and important than being a cowboy—nothing.  

Preparing for School
So, with one week of summer vacation left, what did I do? My little brother was kind enough to lend me his holster and guns (cap guns) and, for hours, I practiced in the alley behind our rented house, coming out from behind trashcans, killing the bad guys. He joined in most of the time so it was good he had two guns. I would mimic what he said. “Pow! You varmint! You thought you’d get away with it.” (I didn’t understand what I was saying; of English, I knew only the numbers from one to ten, “yes and no,” and my address in case I was lost.) Nevertheless, in that one week before school, I was practicing being like my hero, Roy Rogers. 

First Day of School
What really surprised my brother was, when we walked out of our front door, heading to Roosevelt Elementary for the first day of school, I was wearing the holster and guns. He warned me to leave them home but I didn’t listen. My mom just let it go because she didn’t want to quench this fresh and excited spirit I had. So, off my brother and I went. It was about a 15 minute walk to school.

Roosevelt Elementary School was 75% African-American at the time. As I approached the campus and saw the kids playing four square and tetherball, some of them saw me. Just the fact a new white kid walked onto the school playground was enough for them to look over and notice. The fact I had a holster and two guns, was enough to get them laughing and to come over and tease me. In no time, I was surrounded by about ten kids who were laughing at me and grabbing at my guns and holster. I couldn’t move. My brother tried to get me out of there but couldn’t. I was just about to unleash a right cross when a tall man moved through the crowd, told the kids something, took my hand, and led me into the building to his office. It was the vice principal. He and I were going to get very close in the next few weeks. 

Going Home After School
My brother warned me not to wear those guns but I didn’t listen. But I hadn’t learned my lesson yet. On the way home, I insisted my brother was going the wrong way. What was I thinking? He knew the way to school and back. He was about to make a right turn down one street when I stopped and refused to go any farther. He tried to convince me he was right but I didn’t listen so he just went home.

I tried to find my way home but got lost, of course. I ended up at Mike Salta Pontiac, a huge car dealership on a Long Beach Boulevard. I was crying profusely because I was so scared. (It's funny now but I was really frightened then. I was in a foreign country and was lost.) A car salesman noticed me and come over. He asked me questions that I, of course, couldn’t understand. Then I remembered what my mother had told me in Dutch, “If you get lost, tell someone your address, 131 East 15th Street.” But when I repeated it to the salesman, I screwed it up. I said, “131 east five teen straight.” He figured it out and took me home. As we approached my house he pointed and asked a question. I said, "yes," one of the English words I knew. He parked and took me to the front door. My mother opened the door and it was evident she had been crying. My brother was behind her and it looked like he was in trouble, but relieved I was found before my stepfather came home. That car salesman was nice.  If I were older, I would have bought a car from the guy. 

Wow! That was an exciting first day of fourth grade. I told myself, ‘This is a little too exciting.’

Disneyland Closes Early
Swen Nater

As a child, did you ever go to Disneyland? Remember the butterflies in your stomach when you entered the park? There was so much to see, so much to do, and so much to taste. Remember the many aromas of tasty foods that tempted your palette as you walked by the Blue Ribbon Bakery on Main Street and the Thunder Ranch Barbecue in Frontierland? And oh, those fried corn fritters. But take my advice; after you eat, wait a while before going on the Teacups. Everyone seemed happy and excited at Disneyland and the world outside the gates faded from memory. That’s exactly the feeling I had when I came to America.

But that was about to change. Yes, from the time Nanna and I stepped on that plane in Amsterdam until we stepped out of that windmill at NBC, it was like Disneyland. But in the car on the way home to Long Beach, it seemed the lights dimmed, all the rides stopped moving, the food places closed their doors, smiles turned to frowns, and everyone was asked to exit the park early. You see, with my sister and I in the backseat, my stepfather, loudly and with disgust, said to my mother in Dutch (so we could understand), “Now we have another two mouths to feed.” Suddenly, there was a queasy feeling in my stomach.

That’s when I flashed back to when we were on stage with Bill Leyden, the host of “It Could Be You,” and it all made sense. My stepfather was hardly smiling while my mother was overjoyed and when Mr. Leyden extended $600 cash to help them get started supporting three children, my stepfather grabbed the money and held it tightly.

Oh, yes, it was clear. He didn’t want us there. He had the means to bring us over way before that day. My mother became so depressed; she had told the Andersons she was going back to Holland to get us, on her own if need be. That’s when they kicked their efforts into a higher gear to bring us to America and thank God, it worked.

When we got home from the show, reality set in. I was used to the rules of the half-way house but I had never had rules this strict and unreasonable. For example, my dad would eat dinner first and, when he was done, the children were allowed to eat. We were not allowed to talk to each other at the dinner table, nor were we allowed to sit in the  living room; that was for adults.

In the months to come, I would learn how he disciplined, which included the unexpected hard slap on the back of my head and spankings with a tennis shoe on the lower-back until whelps were made. On numerous occasions, my little brother and I were made to stand in the bathroom for one hour, with our hands high on the wall until the blood was out of them and the pain was excruciating. My mother did everything she could to talk sense into my stepfather and intervene, and it helped a lot. You will see later in the story, there was a time when she had had enough.

The airplane ride, the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, the TV show, and being reunited with my parents and brother were like Disneyland for me. They made me forget about the halfway house. I was in America and everything was going to be alright. But this little boy became disappointed. Disneyland closed early. 

In less than one week after my arrival in America, fourth grade was to begin. I told you I was going to tell you about my first day. You’re not going to believe it. Imagine Roy Rogers riding into Roosevelt Elementary School, 75% African American. But, you’re going to have to wait until Wednesday.

Show Time
(To catch up, see www.coachswen.com blog)

Ever since my mom and dad divorced when I was three, my sister and I were moved around, from Tante Gerharts’ house (friend of my mom’s), to the foster home, and finally to the halfway house. It wasn’t fun because I could never build a friendship with anyone and I missed my mom and brother. The staff of the halfway house worked hard to make it one big happy family but, for me, it wasn’t most of the time. Some of the kids there hated me and the worst thing was, I didn’t know why. So you take your bruises and you go on. But the bruises never really go away. Or do they?

Nanna and I were suddenly taken from the halfway house and brought to America by the TV show, “It Could Be You.” Almost in an instant, the halfway house bruises seemed like they weren’t there anymore.  

Through the rehearsal earlier that day, my sister and I understood our instructions. We were to position ourselves, side by side, inside a five-foot high windmill, on stage behind a curtain that had the back of it cut out so we could fit inside.  When the curtain was pulled and we heard the host say the magic words, he would open the little door. That was our cue to run out and hug our parents, my sister going to my stepfather and me running to my mom. I was already taller than the average 9 year old so they warned me to be careful not to knock my mom over.

I couldn’t enjoy the Beverly Wilshire pool so much that day because my mind was consumed with seeing my mom and brother again. It had been about four years. I kept thinking about my mother’s letters and how she constantly reminded us of how much she missed and loved us. I kept thinking about how warm she would be when I hugged her. I anticipated she would be shocked and then cry as she squeezed me on stage. I watched the clock carefully and impatiently.

The limo picked us up at our hotel and soon we arrived at NBC and were taken backstage. I don’t remember anything between then and when we got in that miniature windmill. I believe we were in a waiting room and, all of a sudden, someone came in with a smile and said in Dutch, “Nanna and Swen, it’s time. Are you ready?” Was I ready? Are you kidding?

As we walked onto that stage behind the closed curtain, we could hear what was happening on the other side. I didn’t understand one word of English but was later told. With some drum roll-type sound as a background, a TV camera, hoisted up several yards to get a birds-eye view of the audience, was panning the crowd. It would halfway zoom in on a person or a couple and the announcer would say, “It could be you.” After probably five fakes, it finally fully zoomed in on my mom and stepfather and the announcer said, “Mr. And Mrs. Langeberg (my stepfather’s last name), It Could be you.” My mom looked over at the Andersons, the Quaker family that had arranged the whole thing, and she knew something was up. They smiled and motioned that everything was OK. An usher immediately offered his hand to help my mom up and escorted both of them all the way down the aisle and up the stage steps, toward the host, Bill Laden, as the audience clapped frantically. Remember, Nanna and I were tucked in that little windmill and we couldn’t see or understand a thing. But we could hear and we knew it was almost time.

My parents were standing next to Bill Laden, shocked, looking at the huge audience, and trying to make sense of the whole thing. He asked them a question and pretended to notice a foreign accent. He asked where they were from and my mom said, “Holland.”

“Holland,” repeated Bill. “Don’t they have wooden shoes there?”

“Sure,” answered my mom.

“Do you have children?”

“Yes, three. Ibo is here with us but Nanna and Swen are still in Holland. We are working to get them over here.” (She didn’t know, we were just a few feet away.)

“I bet you miss them greatly.”

“Oh yes I do,” said my mom.

“And don’t they have windmills in Holland too?”

“Yes they do.”

“I can assume you have seen a windmill before, right?”

“Many,” said my mom.

The curtain pulled back as Bill Laden said, “I bet you’ve never seen a windmill like this one.” It was all my sister and I could do to keep from busting through that weak little door. My mom was so close I could almost feel her warmth. I wanted so badly to see her. I peeked through the crack in the door but could see nothing. Bill had now walked them over to the windmill and they were standing right next to it, and to us. For the first time in the show, I could actually hear my mother’s voice directly, not just over the PA system. Next question.

Bill asked my mom, “Have you ever seen the inside of a windmill?”

“Oh, yes, I have.” (She had no idea we were inside.)

“I bet you’ve never seen one that looks like this.” And he opened that door. My sister went first, as planned, and then I followed. I was oblivious to the bright stage lights or the shocked audience that first sighed and then burst into applause, as I came out of the windmill from a crouch to a full stand. I looked up and there was my mother. She had already seen my sister and knew what was happening. When she saw me coming at her with a stomach full of butterflies and a face full of the greatest joy ever, I came toward her (carefully of course, just like in rehearsal) and we were caught in an embrace I will never forget. Our tears met somewhere during the hug. I don’t know how long it lasted but I knew I didn’t want her to ever let me go again. I stayed right next to her for the remainder of our time on stage and walked closely by her as we went backstage.

We were in America now. On the way home I thought about the halfway house, the kids that hated me, and felt for that bruise they left on me. But I couldn’t find it. I was in America and although I still hadn’t seen any cowboys, I had my mom and that was all that mattered. When we got home, I saw my brother, Ibo, fifteen months my younger. The last time I saw him he was 3. Now he was 8. To this day we are very close.

Fourth grade was only one week away. Wait till you hear what happened my first day. Think, “Cowboy.”

It Could Be You
Swen Nater
 
I promised to tell you about how my sister and I came to America through a nationally-televised program called, “It Could Be You.” (see August 1st posting, “Whitecaps and Marigolds” www.coachswen.com)  Before I start, I want to make it very clear, I truly believe my mother’s decision to come to America without my older sister and I, with the intent of bringing us over later, was absolutely the right thing to do and time proved she was correct. 
 
Life was not easy at the halfway house, oh, not because of the marigold; I really missed my mom and little brother. The weekly letters our mom sent us, telling us about life in America and that they missed us too, only increased the desire to be with them. After three more years (August, 1959), one day, my sister, Nanna (now Renee Mestan), and I were called into the office. There, sitting with the director, was a woman. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was in charge of making sure we were reunited with our family in America. This arrangement was initiated months before, through friends of my mom and stepfather. Here’s how.
 
On New Year’s Eve, 1955, my mom, stepfather, and little brother arrived in America at the New York harbor on The Suiderkruis, a hospital ship used during the war. In those days the only way to immigrate was through a sponsor—a US citizen who accepted the responsibility to help you get settled, get employment, and be self-sustaining. For my family, that sponsor was the Andersons, Quakers, who lived in Scottsdale, Arizona. My family first lived with the Andersons.   
 
After a short time, my stepfather got a menial job which enabled them to get a place of their own. Non-citizens were not qualified for minimum wage.  My mother made some money woodcarving (www.norahall.com), a skill she learned from her father in Holland, at age 19. Nevertheless, they made just enough money to get out on their own. 
 
My mom was hurting badly from missing her other children, and my little brother, Ibo, really missed us too. My mom constantly talked about us and, as you already know, she wrote us letters at least once a week, letting us know how wonderful things were in America and giving us hope for a reunion. The Andersons felt my mother’s pain and, after seeing that the amount of income my parents were generating left nothing in a savings account, they went to work to find another way for my sister and I to come over.
 
They contacted the NBC TV show, “It Could Be You,” to see what they could do. This show was in the business of helping the hurting. For example, if a family’s house burned down, that family came to the show, were brought on the stage, and were presented with the money to buy a new house or even given a house already made. But the really cool thing about the show was, that family had no idea they were given free tickets only to be called on stage for the surprise. When it was time to announce the lucky person or family, the camera would pan the audience for at least half a minute, stopping to zoom in on one or two people, and would finally freeze on the fortunate ones. At that time the announcer would say, “Mr. And Mrs. Doe—It Could be You.” Through a miracle, the Anderson’s received word that the show was going to reunite my family.
 
So there we were, Nanna and I in the director’s office. We were well-aware of what was happening. We were going to America, for me, the land of Roy Rogers. I thought everyone in the US was a cowboy from watching Roy Rogers on TV in Holland, every Wednesday night at the home of the only family on the block that had a TV. In a matter of days, we departed for America from Schiphol Airport (Amsterdam). My father and his mother, “Oma Amsterdam” as I called her, drove us to the airport and saw us off.  We were on a KLM propeller plane in first class and headed for New York. 
 
We had never been on a plane before. I had never even seen one. The loud noise of the propellers reaching maximum RPM,; the sudden forward thrust pushing me back in my seat; the weightless feeling of lifting off the ground; and seeing the houses, canals, and cars getting smaller and smaller, was amazing. My sister and I sat next to each other.  

Up to that point, I had never had soda. Once the flight attendant gave me a Coke and I tasted it, I was hooked and I wanted more. But she should never have told me about that little button. All I had to do is press it and, presto; the attendant was there and soon more Coke too. After about three, my side hurt—not from the Coke, but from my sister elbowing me every time I reached up for that button. She was like a mom to me and that was a good thing, most of the time.
 
Across the way was a man sitting in the window seat with no one next to him. He was drinking some type of liquor and it was affecting him greatly. He noticed me, smiled, and called me over to talk. I’m an outgoing person (and it was an excuse to take a breather from my sister for a while) so I sat next to him. He didn’t know one word of Dutch and I didn’t know one word of English but we communicated for at least fifteen minutes, me speaking Dutch and he, slurred English. He was so drunk he thought he understood me and I played the game beautifully, switching from Dutch to gibberish after a while. He never knew the difference. I looked over at my sister and she was shaking her head, I assume because she was convinced her brother was an idiot.
 
In New York, we transferred to an American Airlines jet and arrived in Los Angeles 22 hours after departing Amsterdam. I didn’t see any cowboys at the airport but, when we stepped outside, the warm air, busses, and cars made me forget all about that. I think my mouth was open the entire limo ride from the airport to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. In her letters, our mother had told us about the tall buildings and palm trees but seeing it first hand was different.

The Beverly Wilshire Hotel was like a paradise. There were palm trees everywhere but I enjoyed the swimming pool and room service the most. I stayed in that pool until they almost forced me out. In the halfway house, we had meat once a month. Here, I could have it every meal and I did. Oh, yes and I had plenty of Coke too.

The next day, Saturday (the day of the show), in the morning, we were escorted to the studio to practice for that evening’s show. Meanwhile, my parents were being driven to Hollywood to attend the show with free tickets, of course. (My family was now living in Long Beach, CA) Little did they know. (To Be Continued Wednesday)

SWENSDAY STUFF

Wyatt and the Peach Basket
(sequel to last week’s posting, Checklists are Cool)
Swen Nater

In last Wednesday’s blog posting, I addressed the value of checklists. Well, I practiced what I preached. One of Costco’s executives (I work for Costco) asked me to spend an hour with his grandson, Wyatt (age 12), on the outside court here at work, and teach him some things. We met last Wednesday at 4:30. That kid was quick, I tell you! He was so quick I believe he could have played tennis against himself. In fact, he was so fast, when he dribbled full speed to the basket to make a lay-up, he couldn’t make the shot. So I slowed him down a bit, worked on the fundamentals and on taking dead aim for that spot on the backboard, and, with a little practice he was just fine.

Then we began working on his set shot and I noticed some common things many pre-teen players need to correct. Those errors are rooted in how they learned to shoot when they were younger. When children don’t have the arm power to get the ball above a ten-foot basket, they will twist their bodies to get torque, push their elbows way out to the side, shoot with two hands, and  twist their bodies back 180 degrees to launch the ball, much like a shot putter. All of those things are “No Nos” for consistent and accurate shooting.  (All movements in shooting should be in line with the direction of the shot.) Wyatt was older so he didn’t do some of those things but he still shot with two hands and his elbow was out. 

It was time to give Wyatt the checklist for the set shot. I got him in balanced position, put his right hand behind the ball and his left hand to the other side so it would not take part in the propulsion, and gave him the checklist, one step at a time.
1. Elbow above the knee at start
2. Elbow keeps moving up during shot
3. Elbow above the ear at finish
4. Reach in the basket (I was tempted to say “peach basket” but Wyatt would have changed my label from “old school” to “ancient school.”) This is also known as the follow-through.

The first three I learned from Coach Wooden. The last one is a secret taught to me by Dr. Tom Amberry, world record holder for consecutive free throws made at 2,750.

Wyatt probably shot 250 shots that day, interrupted by me giving brief explanations, demonstrations, and corrections. Each time Wyatt shot the ball he said, out loud, the four parts of the checklist. He had the most trouble with the peach basket…err…Reach in the Basket part. But in time, the proper method became more natural for him and he started knocking shots down. At one point, he made five in a row. The checklist was working right there in front of my eyes.

That’s when I saw a slight smile on his face although he was trying to hide it. Too late, Wyatt! I caught you having fun and I caught you with your hand in the peach basket.

Whitecaps and Marigolds
Swen Nater

I was born on January 14, 1950 in Huisduinen, a village in the northwest-most part of Holland (The Netherlands). Huisduinen is as far north as you can go on the west coast. Just beyond it is the opening to the Issel Meer, a huge inland lake that leads ships from The North Sea to the Amsterdam harbor. Because that area of Holland is 23 feet below sea level, ships must enter through the Afsluitdijk (closing dike) and go through the locks to be lowered.  As a very young boy, my father took me to the top of another dike close to my house. It’s difficult to fully describe the feeling when you stand on the dike, look to one side and see the water, and then to the other side where the homes are actually below water level. 

The North Sea is one of the most turbulent in the world because of the fast gushing and whipping winds.  As I stood on the dike with my father, I noticed, as far as the eye could see, thousands of violent whitecaps, equally spaced and, like people on a crowded train, each selfishly pushing in all directions to maintain the space it had a right to. Each white-capped wave, it seemed, was unique and worked hard to survive and keep its identity.

At age three, my mom and dad divorced. My mother had custody of her three children. My sister was 6, I was 3, and our little brother was 2. Fortunately, she had a profession, woodcarving, but only made enough to support one child. So, my sister and I lived with a friend of hers, a middle-aged woman, along with her elderly mother and father. About one year later, my mother came to visit (which she did often) and told us she, my little brother, and her new husband were going to America and would send for us.

A few months after that, because we were too much of a burden on my mother’s friend, we were moved to a foster home. After two more foster homes (I was about 6 by then), we were relocated to a complex that housed many children, all of whom for various reasons, could not live with their mother and father. For many, it was an orphanage. I don’t have too many happy memories about that place. Here’s an example.

Each of us had a 4 X 4 piece of dirt to plant things in. There was a greenhouse maintained by a very nice man who had taken a liking to me. One spring morning, he gave me a marigold (Each of us received one marigold) to plant that was taller and more beautiful than any of the others. I took it to my plot and with maternal love, placed it gently and proudly in the ground, making sure there was no air next to the roots. I watered it and went on inside to have lunch.

Immediately after lunch, I went to check on my magnificent flower. What I found was my marigold had been snapped in half by one of the other children. On my knees and crying, I tried to prop it back up, my tears dripping on the already wet soil. It was no use.

From that moment on, I was akin to a white-capped wave in The North Sea, watching out for myself, pushing and shoving to survive, establishing my identity, and trying to break free from my apparent fate of being absorbed into the belief that I was just a number—just another kid.

But you know what? I was just another kid. Like every child in this world, I was trying to become somebody. Through all the setbacks, I was determined to keep my whitecap a whitecap and was resolute to not become like my marigold—dead to hopes and dreams. I suppose that is why today, I can see the faces of children, feel what they feel, and show them, if you’re a wave in the sea, you are unique and special and it’s OK to have hopes and dreams. I tell them to make the effort to become the best waves they can be.  

Sad story, isn’t it? But it has a happy ending. Remind me to tell you how my sister and I got to America through a nationally-televised program called, “It Could Be You.”